


Weight of the World

by Helena_Hathaway



Category: Original Work
Genre: Depression, Russian Roulette, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 23:04:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7381072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helena_Hathaway/pseuds/Helena_Hathaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one wants to believe themselves a cruel person. No one wants to admit it to themselves that there is evil in their heart. However, here, as he sits around this table, looking into the eyes of this scared man, whom he doesn’t knows in the slightest, he realizes the wickedness in his own heart. He wishes, with such gravity, that this man will die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weight of the World

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting original work publicly, so fingers crossed it's worth it.

There are a lot of things that have brought him to this exact moment. Too many mistakes, ones built on lies, most of them on his part; and helplessness, also his. It’s his own fault. Everything that’s wrong, it can all be traced back to him.

There are a lot of things he wishes he could take back.

When he was a small boy, he almost drowned in a lake. Maybe he was supposed to die that day and all of this is just retribution. It was raining on that day, just like it is tonight, but the thunder hadn’t seemed so violent back then as it does now. With every crack of the sky, with every drop of rain that hits the roof above him, it’s like a cruel joke. Someone wants to rub it in that he’s made so little of his life that he’s ended up here.

It was almost a year ago, on a night so harshly opposite to this, that everything had started to go wrong.

She had sat at the table, looking almost pleasantly out the window, thinking nothing of what life may have in store for her and that’s when it happened. An aneurism. In her brain. It was instantaneous. She never would have felt it, that’s what they told him at least. She didn’t feel it. One second a life glowed out from her eyes, a world half-betrayed in her smile, and then, not a minute later she would be dead. Just like that.

What a pity that death plays no favorites, no biases. Everyone’s life is a gamble, but when you put that into so literal terms the tragedy becomes unending. Yet, there comes a point when hitting rock bottom is just the beginning of one’s descent.

He’s not much of a star in his life. He used to be. He used to be going places. Now, he’s always somewhat of a downer, a black sheep. It’s not by any intent, he thinks it’s just something that grew in him with her loss. He’s good at depravity. He finds it comforting. There’s a solace in it. There is something eerily romantic about being in pain.

He had planned on so much more than this, had so many dreams that he would be someone. He’d be important. He would be a household name, people would envy him for this and that.

No one envies him though. Who would envy a man such as he?

“When I grow up, you’re going to be seeing my name in lights. I’ll be everywhere, no one out there will be able to forget my name,” he said.

“And what is it you’ll do to get there?” she asked.

“I haven’t decided yet. Maybe I’ll write the song of the century, maybe I’ll be a poet who can bring you to tears. Maybe I’ll save a baby from a burning building, maybe I’ll paint a masterpiece. It’s not about how I get there; it’s about getting there at all.”

He was going to be an astronaut. He was going to be the president. He was going to build a time machine. He was going to win an Oscar. He was going to make something of himself. Be someone who she could be proud of.

He had been so naïve. There was nothing in this world he was given that could ever make him soar. Nothing that could ever bring him the name he wanted to be, the notoriety he had dreamed of.

He doesn’t dream of fame anymore, nor does he dream of wealth. He has to dream small; a goodnight’s sleep, a full meal, a day with minimal pain.

He hasn’t always been this somber. His life before now is a stark contrast to the one he currently leads.

“All A’s again,” he said.

“Sometimes I wonder if you really care, or if you just do it to impress me,” she asked.

“Oh it’s never for your benefit,” he replied, “I just want to be the best at everything I do, that’s all. And it’s quite convenient that I happen to be good at everything I’ve ever tried.”

“Don’t go getting cocky now.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Modesty is my middle name, or at least it would be if I weren’t so fantastic.”

He didn’t mean it. Of course it was for her, who else would it be for? She’d raised him. She was the only one who cared what happened to him in the end. It was always her. She was always the person he fell back on, and he liked it that way. It was right. It felt safe. Everything was good.

“You haven’t seen your best years yet,” she said, “just you wait, you’re going to do so much good.”

“They’ll remember my name. Everyone will know it.”

Except no one really does. No one remembers his name. No one remembers the high school dropout with the sad backstory. They always tell you that they will, when you say goodbye, they always tell you that you’ll stay in contact, you’ll see them again, you’ll hang out over the weekend, it’ll be just like old times. Everything will be grand and you’ll always be their friend.

Because no one is big enough to admit that they don’t care anymore. It’s even worse when you realize that they never really did care at all.

He’d like people to think that he doesn’t care, he’d have them believe a dozen different things. He’d have them believe that he made it, that he went places, saw the world, became the man that everyone told him he was going to be, because oh did they tell him. They never stopped telling him.

“First prize!” she said, running to him. His feet left the ground as he was pulled into her embrace, and she was so happy. Her smile could be seen from the moon, it was brighter than any star in the sky, brighter than any dentist could ever dream. She was so proud. Her little boy, first place winner.

All eyes had been on her son, the boy she raised, all by herself with no one there to help her, no one there to show her the ropes. Her son, he had done it, done the impossible. He’d out done a dozen Paper Mache volcanos, beat the girl charging her phone with a potato, he’d beaten them. Her little boy.

Her little boy now sits, staring at the cold black eyes of this man, who is just as terrified, just as helpless, just as broken as he is.

Her little boy.

Her little boy watches as the man to his right, his immediate right, holds a life in his shaking, clammy hands. He can’t begin to describe the fear in his heart, like his heart is gone completely and been replaced with chalk.

There’s no place in life or in death he’d less rather be. He thinks he’d rather be with her, wherever she is right now, than in this seat.

He looks at the faces of the man in front of him, and it sickens him what he wishes for them. This man must have a similar story that has led him to this moment, to this day right here, gambling away all that there is to have for the most inconsequential reason.

No one wants to believe themselves a cruel person. No one wants to admit it to themselves that there is evil in their heart. However, here, as he sits around this table, looking into the eyes of this scared man, whom he doesn’t knows in the slightest, he realizes the wickedness in his own heart. He wishes, with such gravity, that this man will die.

He watches a bead of sweat drip down the man’s forehead, knowing that any moment could be his last, every breath could be his final.

Maybe they’re all thinking the same things as him. Maybe he’s not the only one who’s so broken that the only solution they can find is to blow a hole through the idea of picking up the pieces. He’s not sure he can pick up the pieces anymore. It might be too late.

“It’s never too late to get a second chance,” she told him, as he stood crying over something stupid. He’d been rejected from the school. It was the school that was going to make him. That school was the only one that he ever dreamed of. It was there or nowhere. They didn’t seem to care though, because he stood over that letter, and his heart was in pieces. He didn’t make it in. All he wanted, and they didn’t want him.

He didn’t know pain at that time. He didn’t know what pain was. So what, a school rejected him. Big deal. It was one school. One tiny, inconsequential thing, and he thought his life was over?

He remembers the day he first got a glimpse of true pain clearly. It was bright, and sunny. Perfect October weather with the trees a rainbow of colors. His favorite time of year, everything was just beautiful.

Nothing was supposed to go wrong. Nothing could go wrong. The day started out well, it had to end the same way. That’s how life had worked thus far.

He walked through the door, threw his backpack by the door, grin plastered on his face.

“Mom,” he called out, eager to see her smile, to feel it radiate into his skin and make everything even better than it was before.

She didn’t call back to him like she usually did. Maybe she hadn’t heard him.

“Mom,” he called out again. Still no answer. He walked through the living room, she wasn’t on the couch, wasn’t watching the TV, it wasn’t even on. He walked through the kitchen, and that’s when he saw her.

Her back was facing him, leaning over the table, and he rolled his eyes, she must not have heard him, or was ignoring him intentionally. He might have done something stupid to anger her, or maybe she was just concentrating too hard.

“Mom?” he said again, walking over to her, and that’s when he realized something was wrong. She wasn’t moving. Not even a little bit, not even slightly. She was completely still.

“Mom?” he asked, starting to get scared.

When he finally came to a spot where he could face her, it dawned on him that everything was not always going to be alright. Things didn’t always turn out well.

“Mom,” he asked, and when he touched her arm, she was cold. She didn’t stir, didn’t even register his touch. She was just… gone.

He had refused to believe it. For days, he wouldn’t accept anyone’s sentiments, wouldn’t allow the words “sorry for your loss” to even touch him. He refused to believe she was dead.

After a while though, it started to sink in. She was gone, and she wasn’t coming back.

That’s when everything went downhill. He dropped out of school, fled from everyone he knew, and for all intense and purposes, dropped off the face of the earth.

He decided that the only way to live his life at that point was with eternal mourning, a scowl at all times of the day. He didn’t know how to do anything else. He still doesn’t.

He’d like to say that he’s unattached to his life now. He’d like to say that it’s so far down the drain that nothing really matters anymore, because he knows it doesn’t, but he still does care. He still wants to be alive despite his life not being worth living. He thinks of this as a vice instead of as a good thing, because he could benefit so many people by just not doing this anymore. Not living, not breathing, not pushing on at all odds, because without him, he knows the world would be better. No one needs a street urchin with a taste for self-destruction.

The thing is, though, death scares him. It scares him out of his wits. He’d rather live a million torturous lives than face the reality of death, because he’s a hypocrite at his very core. He’d like to think she’s in a better place, but he doesn’t ever want to find out. He doesn’t want to face what comes next because at least the fear and degeneration he feels on earth is a fear he understands and knows what to expect. There’s no surprises on earth, but death, he just doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what’s out there.

“I’d like to believe life is just a prelude to what comes next,” she said. “There’s some bigger picture that we just can’t see, because we’re too small. We don’t know what it is we’re doing, and maybe that’s the point. I do think, despite all the finality, and the mourning that goes into it, death isn’t really that bad after all. It’s just another plane of existence that we all must face one time or another.”

“I’m not eager to get there,” he said. The thought of it made his blood go ice cold, and it plunged him into a jet-black fear.

“I’m not afraid of death, anymore. I used to be, I think we all have or will be at one point, but I’ve come to accept it. You can’t hold onto anything forever, because nothing ever lasts that long. You just have to move on to whatever comes next.”

“I can’t even move up a grade without mourning the loss of the experiences I had,” he said, and it was as honest as the sun going down at night.

“Let’s hope it’s a long time off for both of us,” she said, smiling at him. It was that big smile, the one that gave a fairy its wings and started a chorus in his head. She always had a knack for finding light in places that had never seen it. Optimism even in the thought of death. Death is made easier by your opinion of what it will be like when it comes to pass, which is why he’s so scared now.

He wants everything to be like it was. Wants her to be here. Wants her to tell him that everything will be okay and that nothing will ever hurt him.

He never lets himself think like that, never lets his mind stray to that, because she had been right about one thing for sure. Once something is gone, it doesn’t come back. It doesn’t do to dwell on the past because you can never go back there. You can wish it as much as you want, but it will always stay in the rearview mirror.

There’s a clicking sound in front of him, which he’d love to say was a relief. He’d love to say that it’s a relief that the man in front of him is still alive, but it wouldn’t be true.

He looks down at the money in the middle of the table, reminds himself why he’s doing this. With all of that money, he can’t quite reach the stars that he’d promised her he’d fly too, but he’ll be alive, and that’s what he wants. That’s what he needs, right now. He needs a second chance. This isn’t quite that second chance but it’s as close as he’s going to come.

The truth is, he doesn’t want to die. That’s not why he sits here today. He doesn’t want to have his blood stain the cement floors of this desolate room. He just wants the opportunity to try something, because there’s only two ways this can go. Either he comes out better from this, or he doesn’t come out at all.

He is attempting to raise a white flag. To surrender to whatever lies before him. Little does he know that his white flag is just a black one that’s yet to be burned.

He looks down at his hands, wonders what they will look like when he gets older. If he gets older. Wrinkled and withering away like the rest of him. Desperately clinging to something, whatever that something may be that he’s yet to discover. There’s a story there somewhere, he’s sure of it. A story to be told simply from the way his hands are cracked, dirtied, reddened from too much work, too much use.

These hands look foreign, completely alien to the introduction of a gun to them. He’s never held a gun in his entire life. Not once. He’s never considered the idea of it. Never once has it occurred to him that there’s a whole destiny waiting to be decided every time a finger finds its way on the trigger of a gun. The weight of it, the feel of the cool metal against his hand, this isn’t just any other thing, this is a killer. This is someone’s death, it’s someone else’s life. It’s someone’s fate in his hands. It might even be his own fate.

“Why would anyone ever do that though?” he asked. The concept didn’t make sense.

“Money, I suppose,” she replied. “It’s the incentive for most things. No one would do much of anything if there wasn’t some aspect of money involved. Do you think I’d go into work every day if it weren’t for the promise of dinner and electricity?”

“But, like, who would be so stupid as to put a gun to their head and pull the trigger for money? It’s so, it’s just so stupid. No amount of money is worth your life.”

“I don’t think it’s a consequence you arrive to lightly. There’s a lot of pain and desperation that goes into it.”

“It’s just stupid, Russian roulette. Who could be so depraved as to risk everything for a wad of cash?”

“I hope you never have to find out,” she said.

There’s a million rubber bands wrapped around his chest, making his breathing ache, making it burn. His insides scream. He thinks he would cry if he had enough life left inside him to muster that amount of emotion up.

He’s afraid to die, he’s petrified at the very thought of it. Yet he’s not living. Not really. He doesn’t know what’s holding him to earth when there’s nothing here for him. He’s just afraid of what comes next. He doesn’t know how he’ll ever find happiness without her, doesn’t know if it’s even possible, but he’s so afraid of what will happen if he doesn’t even try.

The gun is so heavy in his hands. It’s like holding a truck, or a building. It’s too much to bare. It’s the weight of the world.

He thinks of her in this moment, her beauty, her excellence, the way she laughed with one side of her mouth. The way she would get lost in thought when telling stories, and laugh before she could finish her own jokes.

Thinking about her is like gravity. It always pulls her back into his thought, she’s always there, the thought of her digging at his brain with jagged edges, hollowing out her place. She would never approve, but he’s so much more brittle than he ever let her know.

What would she think if she could see him now? That doesn’t matter, though, because she’s dead. Her thoughts don’t matter, because they can never impact him again.

It’s with a splintered heart and heavy scratchy breathes that he realizes that no one will ever know his story. No one will ever know what brought him, him of all people, to this place right now. If they find his body here, no one will ever even know his name. Maybe that’s what he wants.

He takes one painful breath in and he pulls the trigger.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't expect anyone to leave a comment, though it would be lovely, but thank you for reading in any case.


End file.
